


As I See You

by shadesfalcon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, as in I'm just ignoring plot points and characters in order to watch these two idiots realize their, canon adjacent, is in fact mutual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesfalcon/pseuds/shadesfalcon
Summary: Jaskier has always preferred interesting things to good things in his life, so he's quick to take up with Geralt as his slightly unwanted traveling companion. However, as their time together stretches on, Jaskier finds himself unsure how to proceed. He's supposed to sing about love, not experience it. Not like this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 203
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	As I See You

**Author's Note:**

> Working on a Reserve BigBang is always such a great experience, all the more so as this is my first Witcher fic. Time to branch out a little, I guess.
> 
> See [here](https://journeythroughunknownlands.tumblr.com/post/642673597398319104/my-piece-for-the-geraskierreversebang-please) for the accompanying art by [journeythroughunknownlands](https://journeythroughunknownlands.tumblr.com/), or see it embedded in the work.

It starts as a game; twisting his way around tables, serving women, and the various food items being pelted his way. He enjoys all of it. Free, on his own, and eager to carve his own story in the world, he's grateful for the bread he can snag and happy that one day he can pitch his first weeks on the road as a romantic struggle.

When he sees the brooding stranger in a back corner, he can't help but introduce himself. And when he realizes it's a _wi_ _tcher_ , well. Jaskier has always preferred interesting things to good things in his life.

The introduction is awkward, but it gets the job done, and Jaskier can always smooth it over in the song anyway. People pay for entertainment, not truth. 

Geralt becomes so much more than a chance encounter very quickly. Almost immediately, he’s the key to everything Jaskier has ever wanted. He’s not opposed to hard work, no matter what his family would say, but there are some things that hard work will never be able to accomplish, and following Geralt around gives all of them to him wrapped in a little bow.

Geralt clearly has opinions about being followed around by his own traveling minstrel, but he doesn’t put any real effort into running Jaskier off, so Jaskier assumes none of those opinions are deeply seated or, you know, _important_.

Given the nature of Geralt’s job, it’s not long before Jaskier has his first monster encounter himself. Jaskier has to be very careful and sneaky to get it, but he manages. After Geralt gets contracted to kill a cocatrice in a nearby swamp, he leaves Jaskier in the inn like he’s done a dozen times before. This time, Jaskier follows soon after.

He’s not stupid enough to think he can sneak up on an undistracted Geralt. Instead, he’s banking on Geralt becoming too distracted by the fight to care about a little old bard like him. He ends up being half right. Geralt is distracted. Unfortunately, that’s the end of what Jaskier ends up being right about.

Once he can hear the sound of fighting clearly enough that he’s got a general direction to aim for, Jaskier drops to the ground and starts shuffling his way toward the noise. There’s a brief second of mourning for his outfit, but at least he dressed specifically for woods-crawling, and thus nothing he’s wearing will be much missed in the end.

He’s very proud of himself as he moves along. He’s really sacrificing for his art, not to mention how quickly he seems to be moving. The sounds of violence keep breaking through the night in louder and more distinct patterns every few moments.

It’s not until he’s close enough to make out Geralt’s cursed-laded insults at the beast, that he realizes he’s not so much making progress toward the fight, as he’s being made progress toward. He never does learn if the cokatrice had sensed him and sought an easier meal, or if the fight just happened to move in his direction by arguable luck, but either way there’s a tangle of heartbeats where Jaskier suddenly comes face to face with the concept of dying for one's art. It’s not as appealing as his own songs make it out to be.

Death moves toward him in the form of a flashing beak and claw torn earth, but Geralt is faster. Jaskier fights his instinct to hide his face away, and as a result sees the steps that follow clearly. Geralt moves out of his defensive stance and into a reckless attack that moves him in a sweeping arc. His sword comes up to parry a clawed attack and can’t make it back into position in time for the next. There’s a flash of movement and a splatter of blood, and then Geralt is down on one knee in between the creature and Jaskier. His sword is pointed down into the dirt.

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do.

He has always been so confident in his actions and reactions, even when he had no context or help. His first days at Oxenfurt, his first days on the road, his first performance, odd inn encounters, clandestine liaisons gone wrong. Jaskier has always had some idea of what to do next in every situation he comes across.

With Geralt wounded and kneeling, Jaskier had no idea what to do.

And then Geralt leverages his body, using his weight as momentum and twisting his sword point up just as the cocatrice descends. Geralt grunts in pain that shivers visceral fear up Jaskier's spine the way the sound of breaking bone would. And then it’s over. The creature is impaled via its own weight, and Jaskier got a front row seat to the whole thing.

“Amazing!” he exclaims loudly, scrambling to his feet. “I knew you weren’t doing any justice to the descriptions. Well, when you even bother to give me a description. Absolutely brilliant. This is going to fit seamlessly into the song I’ve been working on for months and will _not_ accept a bridge, despite my best efforts to convince it.”

Geralt isn’t saying anything. He’s standing still and staring at Jaskier rather the way he had been staring at the cocatrice.

“Geralt?”

“What are you doing here, bard?”

Jaskier huffs at that.

“I’m watching you work. I will say, it was certainly faster paced than I was expecting. And bloodier. Both for you and for it. Gods above that thing has a lot of blood in it, and it’s just all over the swamp now, isn’t it. And you! How often do you get injured like that? Will that be healed by the time we get back to the inn?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It will not be healed for some time.”

“What? I’ve never seen you come back injured before.”

Geralt blinks at Jaskier, and then turns back to the cocatrice and begins salvaging it for parts.

“Geralt!” Jaskier insists, resisting the urge to stamp his foot. “Don’t ignore my questions. I think we’ve determined at this point that I will make sure you regret your decision eventually. How come I’ve never seen you injured like this? You’re literally dripping blood all over. Shouldn’t you stop moving and just…lie down for a moment or something?”

“No.”

“Geralt!”

“I don’t get injured like this very often.”

“Oh. Well, are you…are you all right?”

“I will be.”

“Okay then! Then at least tell me what was different about tonight. Are cocatrices particularly capable monsters?”

“No.”

“Then what was different tonight?”

“Tonight I was protecting you.”

Something twists in Jaskier. Something new. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Oh,” he says. “Well. Next time, no need. I’ll be better prepared in the future, and I’ll just run away. I’m very good at running away; I’ve had loads of practice.”

“There won’t _be_ a next time,” Geralt growls, anger flaring suddenly as he surges to his feet and steps into Jaskier’s space. Jaskier decides not to take a step back in response.

“I’m not scared, Geralt,” Jaskier says, forcing disdain into his voice so it doesn’t shake. Because he’s not scared, there’s just...adrenaline to deal with right now.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Jaskier for a long time, holding one hand to his bleeding side as his facial expression remains as impassive as ever. The flashpaper anger is gone. Eventually, he just turns away.

Jaskier hums to himself for the next stretch of time, composing excitedly while Geralt painstakingly calls Roach to him, drinks another potion, strips any useful parts from the cocatrice’s body, and eventually gestures at Jaskier to head back to town. It takes long enough that Jaskier wishes he’d brought his lute, but he’s not sure how he could have gotten it out here undamaged.

It’s only a couple of days later that they reach another inn. Much as Geralt always seems loath to spend the coin, Jaskier insists. Wary innkeepers are often soothed by a promise of a bard in their establishment for the night, and Geralt keeps to himself well enough. Jaskier, in fact, is more often the one to cause trouble, but he doesn’t advertise this information when negotiating rates.

This night in particular, Jaskier is taking a quick break for a drink, riding high on the energy of the room, when a firm hand claps down on his backside. Jaskier isn’t one to say no to a night of fun, but he does insist on being asked.

He empties the contents of his mug on the man he turns to find, and is gratified by the gasping, reminiscent of a land-drowning fish, that occurs as a result. Less fortunately, the man quickly finds his voice and his hands, rearing back to slam his fist into Jaskier's face. He’s slow, due to drink and confusion, so Jaskier avoids the fist, but he is pressed up against the bar by the man’s momentum. So he kicks the man in the balls and quickly dances away, taking his lute with him.

“You!” he announces to the crowd, “You are not anywhere near coy enough to take me on a ride, my good sir. Certainly not with manners like that. _Certainly_ not with a face like that. You really are lucky mirrors don’t offer opinions.”

There’s a bit of a dance after that, as the man pursues Jaskier unsuccessfully, given the bard’s nimbleness in opposition to drunken stumbling.

“Now,” Jaskier continues loudly enough to be heard over the instigator’s grumbled complaints, “while I understand your base instinct desire to lay claim to an ass as delightful as my own, I absolutely refuse to bed anyone who isn’t going to make sure I have just as good of a time as they do, and dear gods above, I very much doubt your feeble attempts at drunken rutting would even register. Go find a brothel, and please do pay extra to make up for the required effort.”

Before the situation can develop out of control any further, he dances up on a table and starts playing a horrifyingly raunchy song wherein a whorehouse matron turns a man out of her house for performing so badly during sex that he annoys his way out of a welcome, gold not withstanding. It’s always a well-received song in villages like this, even if the metaphor does cast himself as the whore here.

Still, it does what he wants, and the whole room is soon singing along to the choruses, mocking the stumbling antagonist with rough words and bawdy laughter. When they start throwing things, the man slinks out the door dejectedly.

Hours later, when Jasker slides in across from Geralt, he is surprised to find a bowl of stew waiting for him. It’s still warm, if not hot, and Jaskier is too hungry for semantics on the issue. He eats greedily, stealing some of Geralt’s ale to wash it down. He’s mildly surprised he’s allowed the theft, but he doesn’t comment on it. Mouths and gift horses and all that.

“To bed?” he asks eventually. Geralt just stares at him.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Jaskier shrugs. “You can sit and stare broodily for a while yet if that’s what you like. It’ll still be there when you decide to come up.”

He pushes his way free of the table and waves at someone in the room that calls to him before ascending the stairs and making his way to the room he purchased. He’s both surprised and not to find Geralt behind him, but obligingly holds the door open.

There’s some awkwardness then, as they step around each other in the small room and get undressed and redressed and washed as best as the water pitcher allows. Jaskier slips into the bed and slides over to one side just in case Geralt wants to be nice enough to come share warmth in the cold room, but as expected Geralt stands and contemplates for a while before setting up his bedroll on the floor. Jaskier rolls his eyes and quickly falls asleep.

It’s weeks later before there’s any sort of trouble again. Winter is starting to threaten its way into the air, and Jaskier knows that witchers winter elsewhere, so he’s trying to milk every minute for what he can. He’s walking beside Roach, strumming away, when Geralt pulls her up a little shortly. Before Jaskier can ask what’s wrong - he is _not_ in the mood to be attacked on the road without warning, thank you - he notices there is a small party coming down the road from the opposite direction. Three men on horses.

Geralt pulls Roach off to the side, urging Jaskier to join him in the mud, which Jaskier has _opinions_ on. Why do these random men get right-of-way on the road when Geralt has done more for the people of this world than any high and mighty group of sellswords?

Jaskier expresses this opinion loudly, and when Geralt just tells him to hush, Jaskier shouts it at the men who are riding past without more than a glance at the men they’re passing.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Show a little respect when you’re in the presence of Geralt of Rivia!”

The man in the back slows and then turns his horse, while the other two notice a moment later that their companion has fallen back.

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” the man snarls.

Jaskier doesn’t think that’s very fair. It’s been ages since that incident. Years and years, and frankly Jaskier has his doubts it went down the way everyone says. Not to mention, Jaskier has put a lot of work into the witcher songs. They’re pretty well known, if he does think so himself, so there are plenty of other feats Geralt has nicknames for. This man is just being _rude_.

“Hey!” Jaskier snarls, stepping around and in front of Roach so he can really be seen in all his angry glory. “How about you don’t be an ass about old wives’ tales and take my advice in the first place?”

Now the asshole has his hand on his sword, even if his two companions don’t look sure about what’s happening. One of them is wearing an obnoxious yellow tunic that does not go with his complexion at all - a fact that offends Jaskier about as much as the original insult - and the other looks like a whore would charge him double. Jaskier is not impressed.

“I had family in Blaviken,” Asshole snarls back. “Ancestors that died on that prick’s sword.”

“Pity they weren’t the type of ancestors that kept you from being born. Now how about you take that shit dribbling out of your mouth and shove it back up your ass where it belongs. It’s unseemly letting it drip like that.”

That was the end of Jaskier’s involvement in the situation, considering Asshole wasn’t interested in bandying further words. Fortunately, Geralt handles the situation just fine without even killing the fellows, which Jaskier considers far too merciful. But, he doesn’t let Geralt tell him how to sing, so he isn’t about to interfere in Geralt’s side of things either.

It’s not until they’re well on their way again that Geralt offers any comment on the matter at all.

“Don’t do that again,” he tells Jaskier.

“And why the fuck not?” snaps Jaskier. He got mud all over his pants from when one of the horses made a quick turn near him, and now he’s in a horrible mood. They’re probably going to be sleeping in the woods tonight too, so it’s unlikely he’ll get to wash them in anything better than a stream tonight.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Geralt finally answers.

“What risk? You handled them without breaking a sweat. If a handful of human second-rate attempts-at-talent are a threat to you, then I’ll assume you’ve been poisoned. Or cursed. Something. Stop whining like it was a big deal.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything else after that, but he does let Jaskier ride Roach for almost a whole hour, so it’s not like he’s actually angry.

Jaskier does think though, a little, about how Geralt wouldn’t have even gotten in the fight in the first place if Jaskier had let it all be. And no, it’s not like Geralt got hurt, not physically. But Jaskier had seen him flinch at “Butcher of Blaviken” so…

Jaskier tries to put the thought out of his mind.

Jaskier spends most of the winter at Oxenfurt. It’s not that he’s opposed to traveling in the winter, he’s just that he’s been going at it all year and it’s time for a break. Time to refresh himself, hear the latest gossip, catch up with old friends. He doesn’t, strictly speaking, have a room there anymore, but he knows enough people who still do that he’ll be able to manage for three or so months. When he starts outstaying his welcome he’ll take off again. Maybe he’ll head further south. Maybe he’ll head on a collision course for anyone coming down from Kaer Morhen. Maybe not. Maybe it’s time to leave Geralt be for a while.

He’s living mostly in the bed a former-classmate-now-teacher named Caleb who is a delightful lay and doesn’t seem to mind at all when Jaskier gets up in the middle of the night to jot down song notes, as long as he apologies with his mouth when he comes back, something Jaskier is all too happy to do. As much fun as travel with Geralt had been, his sexual exploits had ended up rather limited to random encounters - often dangerous - and tavern hookups - often disappointing. It’s nice to have a body to know and be known by in return again.

It’s the early hours of a lazy morning in bed when Jaskier really starts talking about Geralt. He outlines a few stories, but mostly just tries to give an impression of the witcher. Eventually, Caleb interrupts him.

“Wait, how long did you spend with him?”

“About seven months, all told,” Jaskier answers. “Why?”

“And you didn’t fuck him?”

Jaskier makes an affronted noise, sitting up with a gasp so he can look down at Caleb and really maximize the full might of his offended expression.

“I did not! He is my _artistic_ inspiration. He’s my _muse_ . If you think I’d sully our relationship with a tumble in the sheets, just because...what? He’s _convenient_?”

Caleb is laughing, completely disregarding Jaskier’s rage, so he moves over to sit with his back to the wall and pout.

“Oh, poor sweet boy,” Caleb croons, sliding closer on his stomach so he can press a kiss to Jaskier’s ankle. “Did I offend you? I forgot how seriously you take your art.”

Jaskier continues to pout, because now he’s thinking about Geralt fucking him, and while it’s not like he’d never thought of it before, it had always just seemed so....unlikely. Especially with Geralt jerking away at the slightest accidental touch. Now that Caleb has outlined the scenario so overtly....well now Jaskier’s having a difficult time not thinking about it.

“Really though, the wonder isn’t that you didn’t jump in bed with him,” Caleb says. “It’s that if you weren’t bedding him, how _did_ he manage to put up with you?”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier replies, this time a little coldly.

“You know I adore you, Jaskier, so don’t get all twisted up and prickly. But you’re...you’re a lot. I mean, you’ve been back at Oxenfurt for three weeks and you’ve already caused a fire, two fistfights, discovered a teacher stealing his student’s work, and broke up a couple that’s been happily together for months now by sleeping with both of them.”

“They were _not_ happy.”

“My point stands. I don’t hear a lot about witcher patience when their tales come around. I’m just surprised he could keep up with you without throwing you out on your ass. Or worse.”

“Mmmmm,” Jaskier says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He knows he’s a lot. Being told so used to bother him, but now he just...well he just moves on when he starts hearing it more often than not. Caleb has a point, though. Geralt has put up with a lot over the last several months.

“He’s very patient, actually,” Jaskier says quietly.

“Oh?”

“He’s...well he’s unusually kind, really. For what you’d expect from a witcher. I mean, all the other stuff you expect is there, too. The strength and speed. The reflexes. The sheer presence of him when he walks in a room, no matter how much he’s trying to hide himself in a corner of shadow. But he’s so unexpectedly gentle. He’s so tired, really. But he always has a little energy for someone in need. Even if he does huff about it like it’s a great inconvenience sent from the gods themselves to test him.”

Caleb sits up and looks Jaskier in the eye, narrowing his own slightly as he searches for something.

“Oh,” Caleb says eventually. “Is that why you didn’t just bed him and be done with it, then?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier answers, but he cuts his gaze to the side, unable to meet Caleb’s eyes as he says it.

Jaskier reunites with Geralt sooner in the spring than he intended, because fate has it out for Jaskier’s heart with a knife. Geralt, of course, doesn’t seem to have a reaction to seeing him at all. Jaskier tries to keep his excitement to a minimum, but it’s harder than he’d hoped. His mouth keeps curling up into a grin every time he looks at Geralt.

He’ll never tell Caleb of course, but he’d taken the point more seriously than it was intended. He’s resolved to be less of a burden on Geralt. He’s going to... _fuck,_ Jaskier isn’t sure, but he’s going to _something_. He’ll figure it out.

His first attempt goes about as well as Jaskier’s first time on a lute.

“Can I help?” he blurts out while Geralt is sitting by the fire and sharpening his steel sword. The exclamation makes him stop at the end of a swipe with a whetstone. He thinks for a moment, clearly trying to parse the question, and then looks up at Jaskier in confusion.

“Help?”

“I was offering to help sharpen your sword.”

God above, it sounds like a line. And with someone else, Jaskier might twist the phrase into a real innuendo - all it needs is the right tone of voice - but instead he’s standing here in the firelight, deeply aware that he has no idea how to sharpen a real weapon of any kind.

“No,” Geralt says finally, and Jaskier doesn’t blame him.

He tries all kinds of things after that. Tries offering to hold things, to do the cooking and the clean up, starts refusing every time Geralt offers to let him ride Roach. None of it seems to have any real effect. Geralt just either tilts his head to the side in confusion or ignores him completely.

Made he should just climb in the man’s bedroll. Or offer to suck his cock outright. He could couch it in a hundred excuses ranging from convenience to friendship, and none of it would work out the way he wants, he’s sure of it. Because Caleb had been right, damn him. Jaskier isn’t going to scratch this itch with a quick fuck by the fire on a forest floor.

Sometimes he thinks Geralt knows something’s up, too. Sometimes Jaskier catches the witcher staring at him across the room, or the forest, or down from where he’s riding. Sometimes Jaskier stares back, but more often he looks away quickly.

And then Geralt goes into a fight with a noonwraith that turns out to be with four bruxa and Jaskier just about loses his mind.

Jaskier has invited himself along on enough of these hunts by now that he and Geralt have struck a balance on where Jaskier is allowed to be when. Part of this compromise is that Jaskier only sometimes abandons where he’s put and tries to sneak closer, while Geralt only sometimes abandons him in the inn to find out in the morning that the hunt is already complete. Not lately, though. Lately Jaskier has been staying exactly where he’s put.

On this particular occasion, Jaskier is parked with Roach on the road that borders the field in question on one side and which is skirted on the other by a forest. He finds out later that Geralt had chased the fleeting figure into the forest, only to be ambushed by the bruxa. He finds out later that Geralt had been beset from four sides, the only saving grace that he had silver and Quen ready. He finds out later that they had clawed him, flug him, and bitten at him, only increasing their violent attacks when he cut down one, then two. It takes almost an hour to manage to get them all, and he only does so in the end because they think the fight is over and begin to play with him until he turns the hunt in a burst of desperation. Jaskier finds it all out later. All he knows as it occurs is that Geralt is taking a long time, but he’s being good and staying put. He moves when Geralt crawls his way out from the burdened fields and into sight along the road.

The village that had underpaid Geralt so completely makes a valiant effort to refuse use of the inn and the healer while Geralt’s bleeding out on their dirt road. Jaskier’s response is reminiscent of ancient angry gods, and they give way before him. He doesn’t remember a lot of it. Remembers digging through Geralt’s potions but knowing he didn’t understand which would help. Remembers the healer saying she had no magic, but that she was good with a needle and thread. Remembers holding Geralt’s hands down by the wrists so she would have the courage to treat him. Doesn’t remember falling asleep, curled up around where Geralt’s head is pillowed in his lap.

He wakes before Geralt, which is already unusual. He’s curled up at the head of the bed, laid out along the pillows like they’re the mattress. He’s still mostly dressed, stiff and uncomfortable, but it’s Geralt’s head pressed against his leg that takes all his attention.

He sits up carefully, watching Geralt for the slightest movement. He looks better than he did during the night. Much better than the bleeding form that had spilled out in front of Jaskier while he’d been busy trying to figure out what was making Roach so jumpy.

Jaskier reaches out on instinct to clear the hair away from Geralt’s closed eyes, and once he’s started he can’t stop. So he keeps petting, smoothing and untangling the white strands. With a better angle he’d redo the leather tie a little neater, but he wants to put off waking Geralt as long as possible.

What would he give up, Jaskier things to himself, if this could be his? What bargain wouldn’t he strike with the gods?

The moment cannot last forever.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, twisting his head a little but keeping his eyes closed.

“Who else would it be?” Jaskier asks softly, even as he draws his hand back. Because maybe he can’t have Geralt the way he’d want him, but he can have this. Who else would it be, but Jaskier?

It’s only a few weeks after the incident with the bruxa when Geralt announces he’s going off on his own. Jaskier listens to the excuses Geralt gives, but all he hears is how poor the exchange of Jaskier’s presence is. All burden, no worth. So Jaskier just nods at the explanation and, when they part ways, says “See you around, Geralt,” like it’s all the same either way.

He spends a good month doing just fine on his own. He catches a beating out behind an inn once that he can’t talk or bite his way out of, but he walks it off. He gets stiffed a little coin from a barkeeper who’s got a good sleight of hand that Jaskier doesn’t notice till he’s counting his money later. He writes more slowly than usual, and they’re mournful and poorly received songs, but every artist has their dry spells. His other works are doing just fine, still.

He does hear about Geralt, and Jaskier tries not to trail behind like an abandoned dog, but he can’t quite help himself. This way he gets to hear the stories while they’re still fresh, he stays out of Geralt’s way, and he still can give himself the illusion of traveling with the man he’s hopelessly fallen for.

It’s pathetic. Jaskier will never be able to perform a mournful ballad about unrequited love the same way again. It’s not romantic. It’s _terrible_. He’s tired all the time, and he keeps thinking about Geralt unexpectedly. He’ll be having a really good day and then suddenly he’ll remember he’s miserable. It’s annoying and unproductive.

It probably doesn’t help that he’s torturing himself by following so carefully in Geralt’s footsteps, but he’ll face that bridge when it’s burning in front of him.

It’s almost two months solid after being abandoned, that Jaskier really lets himself squander away a whole night drinking. It’s not usually his things, given the expense of alcohol, how likely a traveling single bard is to find a missing coin purse in the morning, and the fact that alcohol slows the mind and slurs the tongue. All very good thoughts and reasons to stay away from more than an ale or two.

But not tonight. He’s drinking his sorrows away tonight, and maybe that’ll mean he won’t dream of white and yellow smoke for once.

Like everything Jaskier does, he deprives himself of his faculties enthusiastically. He immediately begins telling stories to everyone who will listen which, if not as entertaining as a song, more than keeps his neighbors amused and occupied, even if half of what he’s said isn’t believed.

At least, until the inn falls silent to turn and look at the unexpected witcher in their midst.

Drunk Jaskier doesn’t remember he’s trying to avoid Geralt, and instead explodes up from where he’s seated with a shrill cry of “Geralt!” before rushing into the witcher’s arms, half collapsing there. Geralt catches him without trouble, and it’s only a few minutes of conversation later that Jaskier finds himself stumbling along happily in front of Geralt, as he’s herded upstairs and into a room.

Jaskier flops down on the bed, not because he’s tired yet, but because it’s the most inviting location in the room, and proceeds to tell Geralt about his day, incessantly.

“And then I got drunk, which is your fault of course,” he finally concludes, after meandering through a semi-incoherent attempt at a timeline. He sits up suddenly, watching all the angles of the room tilt as he readjusts himself.

“You,” he reiterates, pointing, but then seems to run out of words. Geralt is eating at this point, presumably something he’d had brought up. He also doesn't seem impressed with Jaskier’s exclamation, as he’s probably endured several of them at this point.

“Go to sleep, bard,” Geralt orders, rolling his eyes.

Jaskier expresses his opinion on Geralt rolling his eyes, loudly and for several minutes.

Eventually, Geralt stands and places one hand firmly in the middle of Jaskier’s chest and pushes him back down into the bed. Jaskier reaches to place his own hand over Geralt’s, but it’s snatched away as it always is.

“Geralt,” he whines.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

Jaskier babbles on for a bit after that, but he stays where he’s put and eventually decides he’s sleepier than he’d thought when he’d first tumbled himself onto the bed.

The headache upon waking is something else. He groans and flips over to get a better breath of fresh air, both wanting to bury further under the covers and to feel cool air against his sweaty skin. He’s mildly surprised to see Geralt sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, watching him. The night’s events are embarrassing in the light of day, but honestly it’s Geralt’s fault for waltzing in out of nowhere. Jaskier had been avoiding him just fine.

“What are you doing here?” he asks petulantly, only mostly because he has a headache.

“I heard you might be following me,” Geralt answers and well...fuck. Jaskier’s fault after all. He probably shouldn’t have assumed he could indefinitely tail a witcher without consequence.

Before he can formulate a response, Geralt stands and fetches a mug and bowl, bringing them to Jaskier. The soup is warm, and the tea is perfectly hot, and Jaskier is grateful and eager enough to sit up and consume them properly. He’s still a little shaky when he’s done, and his head still hurts, but he feels attached to the world of the living again.

He wonders, suddenly, about the warm food that has likely been sitting on the table for hours. Of all the other times the same thing has happened.

“Geralt!” he exclaims. “Do you heat my food with a sign?”

Geralt, if possible, looks more uncomfortable with this question than Jaskier has ever seen him, but eventually answers with a half shrug.

“Why?” Jaskier asks incredulously.

Geralt shrugs again, stares at Jaskier for a moment, and then bends down to pick up his pack where Jaskier just now realizes it’s ready to go by the door. He can’t help the plaintive exclamation that follows.

“You’re leaving me again?”

Geralt pauses in his movement, but he doesn’t look at Jaskier, and a moment later he continues as if nothing had been said.

“I know, okay,” Jaskier bursts out, and he can hear the beginning of tears in his voice. He’s too hungover for this on top of the night before. On top of all the nights before. These are the details the romantic ballads always leave out. Heartfelt confessions aren’t nearly so inspiring when they’re delivered in pre-cry high-pitched vocals.

“I know I’m a shitty friend,” Jaskier presses on, “but I’m trying. Geralt, if you just tell me what to change or do instead, I’ll do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt finally speaks, standing still.

“I do all kinds of annoying things! Like, I follow you on hunts, even though it gets you hurt sometimes.”

“One time,” Geralt interjects reflexively.

“One time is one too many times!”

“I wasn’t angry with you.”

“Liar.”

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Geralt repeats, more insistent this time. He looks like he’s on the edge of fleeing for his life, although Jaskier cannot for the life of him understand why.

“You shouted at me!” Jaskier points out triumphantly.

“And you weren’t afraid. I--” Geralt cuts himself off before continuing, “I shouted and you weren’t afraid. Not of me.”

“You’re not that scary,” Jaskier huffs, still on the edge of crying even if he’s managed to hold it off so far. “Not scary like that. Not just because you’re big and shouty.”

Geralt takes a half-step toward Jaskier, reaching out one hand like he can’t help it before stopping and letting it drop.

“I get you in fights all the time,” Jaskier continues. It’s important to him that Geralt admit he’s right, and that Jaskier doesn't deserve to follow Geralt around, and then maybe Jaskier will find the courage to actually leave. “I don’t know how to shut up.”

“You could stand to shut up a little more,” Geralt shrugs, “but not during the times you’re getting into fights.”

“I get _you_ into the fights. I draw all kinds of attention to you when you don’t want it.”

“I get in more fights without you than with you.” Geralt moves the step forward that he’d been hesitating over, placing him right at the edge of the bed, and he kneels down so Jaskier has to look at him as he continues, “Your sharp tongue is a pleasant change from the sharp tongues of those out against me. To hear you...to hear you defend me…”

He reaches out and takes Jaskier’s wrist gently, turning it so the blue veins are visible. So gently, fingers barely touching Jaskier’s skin with their unnatural heat, Geralt raises it to his face and breathes in the scent of Jaskier, who trembles and does not speak.

“You’ve gone feral with the wildness of humanity, my lark. To see you, soothes me where I did not know I could be soothed.”

Jaskier hits the limitations of his silence.

“Well why didn’t you _say so_!” he shouts so loudly and suddenly that Geralt’s hand tightens around the wrist instinctively.

“Because you didn’t. I assumed if you had any thought at all on the matter, you’d have expressed it prettily enough. Heaven knows I’ve seen you charm your way around more than enough, and I’ve never seen you hold your tongue when you had something to say.”

Jaskier pouts lazily, too tired and surprised to put much more effort into it than that.

“And you decided to tell me _now_? When I’m sweaty and hungover and have a headache. You couldn’t have gotten me a nice bath and rubbed my shoulders and kissed me?”

“I’m not a romantic like you,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier swears he sees a smile on Geralt’s lips as he says it. And since Geralt apparently needs an engraved invitation, Jaskier kisses him instead.

It’s several months later that Geralt runs into Eskel in an inn. It’s entirely coincidence, since they’re on different hunts that happened to lead them to a mutual rest point. Still, they’re both happy to share in the rare companionship that two witchers meeting away from Kaer Morhen brings them.

“Oh!” Eskel exclaims at one point. "I heard you got a bard. I assume it’s that one you wouldn’t shut up about last winter?”

Geralt's facial expression is unmistakably pleased as he nods once, in answer to both questions.

“Well?” Eskel demands impatiently. “Where is he? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him already. You take well enough care of Roach, I assume a sentient human will be vaguely manageable to you for at least a while.”

“He’s there.”

Eskel turns to follow Geralt’s gesture toward the bar, where he sees what can only be the bard in question, decked out in finery certainly not meant for traveling and having an increasingly vivacious argument with another man in much more mundane clothing. Eskel is about to offer his opinion, when the villager makes the mistake of shaking his finger in Jaskier’s face. Jaskier responds promptly by biting the man’s hand and refusing to let go, even when he’s beat about the head for it, all while keeping his lute held back and out of reach with one hand.

Eskel looks back at Geralt skeptically to find the other witcher is grinning viciously.

“Isn’t he perfect?”


End file.
